


The President's Daughter

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, president Everdeen, president's Daughter!Katniss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 10:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2226249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>President Everdeen, in a rare moment where his daughter came first and his country came second, told her that - within reason - she would be able to have her pick of her husband when she turned eighteen, but that she would have to come with him every single time he conducted business in the Districts. It didn’t seem too much better, but it was certainly the best she was going to get, so she agreed and hugged him around the neck</p>
            </blockquote>





	The President's Daughter

It takes hours for them to get her ready. The separation from Peeta really shouldn’t bother her too much — save for meals, she hasn’t seen much of him since his arrival. Her father had too many lessons for him to afford anyone much free time. But she’s still feeling a little bit antsy. 

  
The dress that they fasten her into is tight at the top, but long and  _heavy_ at the bottom, where it seems to fan out around her. The whole dress is covered in lace, and encrusted with shining gems. Her veil is secured, and they thankfully flip it away from her face so that they can put the finishing touches on her. Good. She  _hates_ the obstructed view.   
  
“Oh, look at her fidgeting,” one of the women says. “She’s nervous. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”   
  
She offers what she hopes is a pleasant smile. She shouldn’t be so nervous.   
  
__  
  
It isn’t exactly a surprise, her picking Peeta. At least, President Everdeen seemed to see it coming. None of his snooty advisors had, though, and when Katniss announced her choice on her eighteenth birthday, they tried to talk her out of it.   
  
 _“Are you sure someone from a more … respectable … district wouldn’t be preferable? Cato from Two, perhaps?”_  
  
She made a face before she could help herself.  Katniss hates the boy from District Two. His name is Cato, he’s three years older than her, and he never stops teasing her for the time she cried about being left alone with him when she was small. He’s cruel. She’s hated him ever since the day she watched him push a young girl, so much like Prim, down to the ground and dirty her dress. Katniss pushed him right back, and the girl watched, wide eyed. Katniss broke his nose that day. When her father saw the blood on her knuckles, he paled, and she heard him talking to one of his advisors that night, saying that he wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. When they got back to the Capitol, they increased her etiquette training to twice a day, five days a week, and the first thing Effie Trinket did was give her an hour long lecture about how unladylike it was for her to get into a fight like that.

It didn’t do much good. She’d do it all over again, etiquette training be damned, if Cato dared to step out of line in her presence again. She can handle the teasing, but now all it takes when he starts to target someone else is a look, and he’s suddenly much more reserved. She’s not sure if that means that he thinks she’s going to tattle on him or if he thinks that she’s going to hit him again. If anyone asked, it would be the first one, but if it came down to it, Katniss wouldn’t even hesitate to sock him again. She knows where it hurts this time.

Though, if she’s being fair, she does hate everything about this plan her father came up with. He calls it her  _duty_. Says that it’s one of the most important responsibilities anyone in the country has, having such a say in picking the next leader.

She supposes he’s right. But she didn’t ask for that responsibility. And she doesn’t  _want_ it, either. In fact, she hates it. Hates the separation from Prim. Hates the long, quiet train rides with her father, who is always more  _president_ than he is  _father_. Hates the fact that she misses Hazelle Hawthorne – a woman originally from Twelve that practically raised Katniss and her sister – more than she appreciates the opportunity to have some time alone with her dad – and a dozen peacekeepers.

She hates the fact these districts, who she knows for a fact have nothing, pull out all of the stops for her and her father when they come. Holding banquets and festivals and basically throwing themselves at the Everdeens’ feet, trying to make a good impression. All in the hopes of being the district to produce Panem’s next president. She doesn’t blame them for it. Sometimes, when she sees a child with particularly hollow cheeks, she thinks that they must do this because they want for a little bit of the wealth to be thrown their way when the time comes. It’s been a couple of generations since the last time a deal like this was struck, and she can’t deny that it is a good opportunity for the districts if not so much for her.

  
With as big as the presidential mansion is, the gossipy workers make it seem small. Everything is whispered, but no one knows how to be quiet.

  
That’s how, at the age of ten, Katniss learned that they were all in distress. Her mother had died in childbirth a year earlier -  _shame it wasn’t at least a boy_ \- and while her father could and  _should_ have remarried and tried again, with a new wife, to produce an heir, he refused. The reasons for that were different every time Katniss heard them. Be it because he and his wife had a hard time conceiving Primrose at all, or because he genuinely loved the mother of his children. She wasn’t sure. But she knew about the solution he came up with before he even thought of telling her about it.   
  
It was to be a glorified trade, really. Between the president and one of the Twelve districts’ mayors that happened to have one or two too many sons. She hoped that it wasn’t true, but when she was finally called into a conference to be told about the new plan - and the fact that, to keep things fair, she would be expected to tour the districts with her father multiple times before she turned eighteen - it was all she could do not to cry in front of her father and all of his advisors.   
  
Hazelle was the one she was comfortable enough to cry in front of. She smoothed Katniss’ hair back and told her all sorts of reassuring things. That everything would be okay and that this sort of thing happened all the time, according to the books. Katniss remembered that, of course. Her great grandfather was originally from somewhere like District Seven. She didn’t remember. Even Effie Trinket, the miserable woman that taught Katniss her History and Etiquette lessons, made it clear that Katniss’ education wouldn’t _really_ come to mean anything in her future as a first lady.   
  
President Everdeen, in a rare moment where his daughter came first and his country came second, told her that - within reason - she would be able to have her pick of her husband when she turned eighteen, but that she would  _have_ to come with him every single time he conducted business in the Districts. It didn’t seem too much better, but it was certainly the best she was going to get, so she agreed and hugged him around the neck.

  
“No,” Katniss said, her voice as strong and clear as it had ever been. “I want Peeta.”   
 _  
_“But –” one of the men began, only to be stopped by President Everdeen’s raised hand. _  
  
_ “I told her she could make her decision, and she has. I’ve seen no problem with the boy – unless you’re suggesting that something may be wrong with him just because of his home district?”   
  
The man couldn’t assure him quickly enough that all of the country is fine and respectable. Katniss and her father exchanged a sly little look that makes her smile.   
  
“You are dismissed, my dear,” President Everdeen said. “We’ll send the train for him straightaway.”   
  
“Can I go?” she asked hesitantly. “I’d like the chance to tell him in person.”   
  
It took a bit of consideration, but it was decided that there was no real harm in sending her there.   
 _  
___  
  
“Your mother would be so proud,” Hazelle says. It should probably make Katniss feel emotional, but it doesn’t. She never really knew her mother.   
  
“What do you think?”  Katniss asks. “Do I look okay?”   
  
“You look magnificent,” Hazelle assures her. “He’s going to love it.”   
  
She looks at herself in the mirror. She does look magnificent. With bright red lips and hair that’s left down but still styled meticulously. She can’t help but to wonder if he will like it, or if he would prefer her to look more natural, like the girls in Twelve.   
  
__   
  
   
that’s how she ended up on Mayor Mellark’s doorstep, flanked by far too many Peacekeepers, palms sweating. She let out a shaky breath before she used the knocker on the door.  _Thump-thump_. There. That was it.   
  
Maybe they weren’t going to answer. Maybe they were out doing something. Oh, she should have let them just send the train. Now she was going to have to ask him in person, and she’d be hard pressed to think of anything less nerve wracking.   
  
Peeta was the one to open the door. He grinned at her, but the smile dropped from his face at the sight of the guards. “Kat – Ms. Everdeen,” he quickly amended. “Is everything okay?”   
  
“It’s fine,” she said. “Um, I brought a letter. From my father to yours.”   
  
If they were alone, he might have made some sort of joke about the mailing system being broken. But he just nodded and stepped out of the way to let them in. “I’ll bring you to him, then,” he says. “Must be important.”   
   
“Yeah,” she agreed, following him to his father’s office. Peeta knocked once on the door and then let them both in to a room she’s never been in before, with bookshelves that span from the floor to the ceiling, filled with thick spines of all different colors, and separated by screens with happenings around the country.   
  
“Oh!” Mayor Mellark said when he saw that it was them. “I didn’t realize we had company coming! Is everything all right?”   
  
She nodded and held the envelope out. The Mayor eyed it suspiciously when he saw the red wax seal, but thanked her and took it anyway.   
  
“Could I talk to Peeta?” she asked. “Somewhere private?”   
  
“Yes, of course,” Peeta’s father said, preoccupied with the letter in his hands. “You could show her the study, maybe?”   
  
“I’ll bring her to my room,” Peeta said.   
  
His father nodded. “That should do. Have fun.”   
  
The two of them exchanged a little amused look. Since when did the mayor tell them to have fun?   
  
__  
  
“Your father is waiting,” Hazelle says gently. “Are you ready?”   
  
It isn’t like it matters if she is ready or not. But she nods anyway.   
  
__  
  
Growing up, Katniss saw a lot of Districts One, Two, and Four, but the further out the districts go, the less she saw of them. She was thirteen by the time they ventured out to Twelve for the first time. The higher-ups from the outlying districts are usually shipped off to the Capitol for meetings, since it’s a days-long trip, even in the train reserved for their family.

She doesn’t know what it was that her father was there for that first time, but she was excited when she learned that their trip coincided with their  _Harvest Festival_ , an event that occurred yearly and didn’t have anything to do with them being there.   
  
That was the night she fell in love with District Twelve for the first time. When she was allowed to venture out to the Square while her father holed himself up in the Mayor’s house to work on some important document. She felt out of place at first, in her fancy red dress, but it didn’t last very long. The vendors accepted her money just the same as everyone else’s. The music was different from what the musicians in the Capitol played. She found herself inching closer and closer to the dance floor, and when it changed into a dance that everyone knew, and the boys and the girl separated into long lines up and down the floor, she somehow got swept up into the crowd.

  
  
It wasn’t too complicated, not too hard to keep up with, with her training. When the lines met up, she was paired off with a blond boy that she vaguely recognized from  her dinner the night before at the Mayor’s house. But he didn’t talk. Didn’t  _want_ to talk. He just spun her around and around, the two of them only connected by the crooks of their elbows, and it was so unlike any dance that Effie had ever taught her, even the particularly fast ones. So much more  _fun_. She vaguely realized that she was supposed to be switching partners, but she stayed connected with this blond boy the whole time, and he didn’t seem to mind. She was nearly doubled over with laughter by the end of the song.

She liked District Twelve. From the very start. She liked the way you could see the stars even from the middle of Town, and she liked the music. Most of all, she liked the  _people_. How for that one night, for the first time in her life, she was treated like she was something  _other_ than the president’s daughter. Someone that belonged somewhere. Somewhere like District Twelve. The thought stays with her for a long time afterwards, the idea that she could somehow belong in Twelve. It’s particularly funny, considering how happy her father always is to _leave_. Because she loves it so much.

  
__   
  
Her father says that she looks beautiful, too. She thanks him and wonders if it should mean more than it did coming from Hazelle.   
  
They practiced this half a dozen times last night, so she doesn’t have to think about it too much when he leads her down the aisle, between hundreds of Capitol Citizens. Peeta is waiting for her. Thankfully, she can focus on that. Or the way his eyes widen when he sees her. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like his eager, and she speeds up a little.   
  
Her father stops her, though, tugging her back a little bit so that they can continue their torturously slow pace down to the end of the aisle.   
  
__   
  
  
She didn’t actually speak to her dancing partner for two more years. The mayor’s sons, both blond and stocky and way too old for her, wouldn’t leave her alone. And she could tell that they were moving up on the list. Inching closer and closer to the level that Cato is on, as far as boys she hates went. They were trying to impress her, she thinks, by telling stories about the other one in hopes to embarrass them. As far as she could tell, it’s just a constant stream of one-upping with these two, and it’s hard for her to keep up. Especially considering the fact that it didn’t even seem like they  _want_ her to be a part of this conversation.

So, as soon as they’re – mercifully – called away, she sprinted up the stairs and threw open the first door she reached, closing it tightly behind her and leaning back against it, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Until someone cleared their throat from across the room.

Oh, it’s a good thing that Effie didn’t rank high enough to come on these trips with them. She would be dead. Lectured to death for sure, for not knocking before she entered a room. She dared to open her eyes, and was relieved to see that it was the mayor’s youngest soon – the one she hasn’t been formally introduced to yet – on the other side of the room, pencil clutched in hand, eyes fixed on her.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

She was still trying to catch her breath. “No. Just … looking for someplace to hide. Hey! I know you!”

“Well, I  _do_ sit two chairs away from you at dinner,” he said, and then instantly flushed beet red. “I’m sorry. That was … uncalled for. And impolite. I just meant to say that I know who you are. Not that you’d guess it, based on the way I’m talking to you.”

“We danced,” she continued, smiling at the thought of that night. “At the Harvest Festival. We danced.”

“We did,” he agreed, smiling. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“That was the best night of my life,” she admitted, not entirely sure why it slipped out. “The lights … and the music … I wish I could convince my father to bring me back next year.”

“The  _Harvest Festival_ was the best night of your life?” he asked, disbelief evident. “Here? In Twelve?”

She nodded. “It was amazing. But I haven’t gotten your name just yet.”

“Right,” he said. “Sorry, ma’am. Peeta Mellark.”

“Oh. No. Please don’t call me  _ma’am._ That’s even worse than it is when your brothers say it.” She wasn’t sure why, but it was. He had to be her age, if not younger.  _Was_ he younger? Is that why he wasn’t not the one they had been trying to throw her with? This age difference, whichever way it goes, seems like one that would be a lot easier for her to deal with than a lot of the others have been.

Of course, being able to  _deal with it_  hasn’t really been a problem. She’s supposed to pick a president and not a husband, but that hardly matters.

“What’s the proper term?” he asked. “I never know.”

“Katniss,” she decided. “Call me Katniss.”

“Okay,” he said, grinning at her. “I think I can do that.”

“Just, try to avoid addressing me directly when you’re around my father. Or the Peacekeepers,” she says. “But, yeah, you can call me that. If you want.”

He laughed.

“But, um, if I happened to be looking for a place to hide, where would you recommend?”

“From my brothers?” he asked. “Oh, man. In here would probably be your safest bet.”

Her cheeks felt hot. Damn Effie for making manners into such a big deal. “I, um, I never said I was hiding from your brothers, you know.”

“It’s funny. You know, Rye thinks you’re crazy about him.”

She tried to hide her eye roll behind closed eyes, but it didn’t work very well.

“Okay. That settles it. You’re hiding from them,” he said, and she notices the dimples in his cheeks. “It’s okay. I do it all the time. They knock first, anyway, so if they come in and ask where you’ve been, you can hide in the closet. Or under the bed. Whichever is easiest.”

“You don’t mind?” she asked.

“Not if you don’t mind me working on my essay,” he said. “You can sit on the bed, if you want.”

She did.

“What are you writing about?” she asked.

“History of coal mining,” he answered, not even turning to look at her.

“Oh,” she said. “You learn about that in school?”

“That’s kind of all we learn about in school,” Peeta said, sounding maybe a little bit amused. “Half of us will end up there. I guess that’s what they’re thinking when they plan the lessons.”

“Oh,” she said again. “My essays are all about the presidency. First lady duties, all of that. So I can see where you’re coming from.”

She grimaced when the words left her mouth. She’s built this boy up in her mind for the last two years, and now that she’s finally actually talking to her dancing partner, he’s about to laugh at her. That isn’t the same thing at all.

“Yeah, I see,” he said, not even bothering to sound sarcastic. “Your school is all at the mansion, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I have personal teachers. One for Math, Science, and Language, and the other is for etiquette and History of Panem.”

It was easier than it should have been, talking to him. He was genuinely interested in what she had to say, not just waiting with baited breath like his brothers would be at this point, so they could get the next word in. He told her a little bit about public schooling before they were called away for dinner, and she couldn’t help but to notice what a good storyteller he is when she could picture his classroom perfectly in her head.

“Peeta,” she said when he goes to sit down a few seats away from her. “Come sit beside me.”

Her father gave her a questioning look, but nobody tried to stop him from taking Rye’s seat. She might not have power over a lot of things, but people aren’t willing to start fights with the president’s daughter over things as stupid as seating arrangements, just in case he did take her side.

It was completely different, eating at Mayor Mellark’s house with Peeta by her side. While the adults all talked about serious matters, they continued their own conversation quietly. She learned that his favorite subject is Math, and made a face before she can help herself.

“You don’t like math?” he whispered.

“It’s horrible,” she whispered back. “I can never make sense of it.”

He considered this for a moment. “It’s like a puzzle. You can always put it together eventually.”

She couldn’t. She’s always been horrible at it. Effie Trinket, trying to appease her one day, had said that she was lucky that she wouldn’t be expected to retain much of her education after she got married. That all she had to do was push through these next couple of years of schooling so that she could be free of math.

She didn’t really realize that there was a person on earth who  _liked_ it. But to hear Peeta put it that way, it does sound almost appealing. Like maybe she would like it a little more if she could put her mind to it and look at it that way. But she sort of doubted it. Language is her strong suit, anyway. Which she supposes she can at least pretend might come in use later, if she’s ever expected to make a speech of some sort on her husband or father’s behalf. Even though public speaking makes her feel a little bit sick to her stomach and her palms sweat terribly when she’s the center of attention. It’s all a very bad combination for a president’s daughter, she knows.

It was a year between that visit and the next one, and they had so much to catch up on that, about halfway through, Peeta asked if he would be able to write her a letter. She agreed. They were all allowed to, technically, but he was the first one that’s actually asked to. Not that she minds. His company is infinitely preferable to any of the other Mayor’s sons. His brothers included.

Somehow, the three page letter was filled with everything that they didn’t talk about when she came to visit. He told her about his brothers and his father and his witch of a mother. About his best friend Delly Cartwright and her younger brother. About his friends on the wrestling team.

She couldn’t help but to wonder what that would be like. Having people around you not because they  _have_ to be, and not because they’ll get anything out of it, but just because they want to.

Katniss wrote him back in her best handwriting. It took a couple of scrapped first pages for her to get a decent start, but once she got going, it was hard to stop. She told him about the dinners and the parties that they have. About how busy her father always is.

She keeps Peeta’s letters to herself. All in a locked box so that they’re away from her sister’s prying eyes, but tucked under her bed so that she can get to them when she needs them.

  
The next time she saw him, he looked at her differently. Not so subtly, his father announced that the bedroom door needed to stay open this time. No one bothered them, thankfully. But she didn’t like the implication of the open door at all. It was silly, of course. She was supposed to be  _courting him_ , not being his friend.   
  
__  
  
“Who gives this woman to be wed to this man?” the official asks.   
  
“I do,” her father says. At the man’s nod, Peeta steps down to meet them just before the steps. President Everdeen lifts the veil away from Katniss’ eyes, and places her hand in Peeta’s. He looks spectacular today, in a perfectly tailored black suit. His hair is styled carefully.   
  
“Hey,” he whispers when her arm links through hers. She sort of smiles.   
  
__  
  
  
  
“Well,” Peeta said, pulling the door closed behind them. “You’re quiet.”   
  
“Yeah. Glad to be away from the guards.”   
  
“I can imagine,” he said. “They creep me out.”   
  
That was what she was going to ask him for. To spend his life surrounded by guards.   
  
“Come on,” he pressed. “What’s the matter?”   
  
She didn’t answer.   
  
“Katniss. You’re freaking me out,” Peeta said. “Is everything okay?”   
  
She nodded, and took this the to look around. She hasn’t been in any of the bedrooms, yet, other than the guest room that’s been assigned to her. This one looks the same, really, as it did the first time she was in it. White walls, white carpet. The quilt on the bed looks to be homemade, and probably passed down from generation to generation.

  
Nothing that’s been passed down at home is able to be touched, let alone  _slept_ under. It’s all kept behind glass cases. She never gave it much thought until now. Save for that, the only really defining feature is the way it’s laid out. His bed was pressed up against the far wall, facing the desk he’s sitting at. It was a little shielded that way. Good. If his brothers came looking, they might not notice she’s in there at first.

  
  
Like the one she’s been sleeping on every time she and her father have visited, this bed is about two times smaller than the one she’s used to from her bedroom in the Capitol, and the mattress creaks a little bit when she sits down on it. “Your room looks the same,” she said.   
  
“Well, I don’t spend much time decorating,” he quips. He opens his mouth, as if to say something else, but she’s finally found her words, so she speaks before he has the chance to.   
  
“If I asked you to come home with me, would you?”   
  
His eyes widened. He blinked a few times. Looked at her like maybe she wasn’t real. “Home,” he repeated quietly. “As in … to the Capitol?”   
  
She nodded. “I know you have a  _life_ here, and … well, not that you  _wouldn’t_ want to be groomed to take over the presidency, but you have friends and I don’t want you to feel like you don’t have a choice because I could take –”   
  
“Stop,” he said. “Stop that.”   
  
She did. She didn’t tell him that she could take one of his brothers. She just stared at him.   
  
“Are you gonna ask me?” he probed, a little smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Because I’d say yes. I’d say that I never thought I’d be the one you picked, but I really,  _really_ hoped I would. And I’d ask when we’d leave.”   
  
“Um,” she couldn’t help but to return his smile before she continues, “we would leave tonight. Or tomorrow. As soon as possible, really, but just depending on how long it’ll take for you to pack. And say your goodbyes. And it was always gonna be you. You’re my favorite.”   
  
He laughed. “Oh! And happy birthday, by the way. I, um, I wrote you a letter, but they wouldn’t let me send it. Said you weren’t accepting  _suitors_ anymore. Whatever that means.”   
  
“Oh.” She was even gladder that she’s picking him now. She doesn’t know what she’d do without his letters. Though, she supposes that there won’t be any more letters anyway. He’ll be living in the presidential mansion with her and her family. In her room. In her bed.   
  
“Better get packing, right?” Peeta asked, sort of smiling. “Did you guys bring me boxes? Or am I supposed to fend for myself?”   
  
She laughed. “You’re in the presidential family now, Peeta. You’ve never gotta fend for yourself again. Come on. We’ll go tell the peacekeepers you need boxes.”   
  
They’re  _hutches_ , really. Made with heavy, dark wood and polished bronze hinges. Peeta’s eyes widen when he saw them, and she knew that it would be interesting to show him the Capitol, if nothing else.   
  
__  
  
After they’ve both said  _I do_ , they’re expected to share their first kiss as man and wife. Luckily, they’ve practiced this, too. One of the very few times that they’ve been able to be alone together, she mentioned – shyly – that she was afraid of everyone seeing her first kiss.   
  
He had no qualms about helping her fix that dilemma. So they really haven’t managed to do a lot of talking, but they’ve kissed a couple of times. She was glad, when their first kiss was a disaster, that it didn’t happen in front of the whole country. They’ve only done it a handful of times, in the stolen little moments that they’ve had in her room – no matter how improper they were – but she’s a little bit  _better_ at it when she’s Peeta’s wife.   
  
“Hey,” he whispers again, his forehead pressed against hers.   
  
“Hey,” she returns. “Happy birthday.”   
  
He laughs. “Happy birthday, indeed. Best present I ever got.”   
  
She feels like she must be blushing, her cheeks are so hot. “Yeah. A presidency.”   
  
“A beautiful wife,” he corrects. “Have I told you how gorgeous you look today?”   
  
She shakes her head.   
  
“Well, you do look amazing. You should wear white more often. It suits you.”   
  
__  
  
It’s fun to watch Peeta adjust to life in the Capitol. He won’t take over the presidency for a while, still, until President Everdeen is decided unfit to lead or – less likely – steps down. But Peeta has definitely become a fixture in the Capitol. Since he’s been here, Katniss has had to go to a lot fewer of the special society events, but she has to bring him there anyway, and he takes to it surprisingly well.   
  
The best part, though, is when the tour following the wedding reaches District Twelve, and she realizes just how close Peeta’s birthday is to the Harvest Festival. She’s put into a pretty orange frock, and she learns that it’s Peeta’s favorite color. It makes her smile for a moment, learning something new about Peeta. They’ve exchanged little bits of information over the last two weeks, things that have come about during their tour of the districts. She tells him about Cato when they get into District Two, and he laughs when the boy scowls at them over dinner. In exchange, that night, she gets told a story about a girl that tried to kiss him on his thirteenth birthday, and how he had pulled away before he really realized what was happening, and how his brothers never stopped teasing him about it.   
  
“You wanna dance?” Peeta asks when they go out to the square. Everyone is staring at them, this time, but she barely minds.   
  
“Yeah,” she says.   
  
Just like the kissing, they’ve gotten  _much_ better at dancing since the days before their wedding. They’ve had plenty of practice, even if the dancing isn’t _hard._ Or, at least, it isn’t hard for her. Peeta is a lot less practiced than she is, and she’s only just managed to teach him the dance where they’re so close that they could be standing on a pie plate. Her head ends up resting on his chest, and his hand comes up to run through her hair.   
  
“You’re getting pretty good at this,” she says, and he laughs.   
  
“I’ve got a good partner.”   
  
“Do you?” she asks. “Because I seem to remember you being good at another dance, all those years ago.”   
  
He grins. “Well, you being the president’s daughter, it wouldn’t be too hard to put a request in.”   
  
“Be his wife soon enough,” she says.   
  
“They’d be crazy to say no to you. Anyone would.”   
  
“Would they?” Katniss asks.   
  
He nods solemnly and drops a kiss onto her lips before he goes off to request the line dance.


End file.
